


Playthings

by ineswrites



Category: Captain America (Movies), 战狼 | Wolf Warriors (Movies)
Genre: Bed Trick, Coitus Interruptus, Crossover, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, Oral Fixation, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship, Self-blaming, Twin Switch, Twins, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 01:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20201410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: Jack was crossing the main hall to the exit, but stopped in his tracks at the sight of Brock waiting around at the enormous sculpture of SHIELD's eagle in the very middle of the hall. How the hell was he already there? Even if he ran down the stairs, there was no way he'd get to the ground floor faster than Jack... was there?"What in the goddamn fuck?"Jack turned on his heel. Standing behind him was Brock.There were two Brocks.





	Playthings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SplinterCell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplinterCell/gifts).

> A birthday fic for my lovely angst buddy. Hope you'll like it 😬

Jack yawned and stretched in his cheap office chair. It was still early, barely afternoon, but STRIKE team Alpha touched base only two hours ago. No one expected them to sit down and write their mission reports immediately after, but Brock always made it a point to do just that while his memories were still fresh, so Jack took that time to type out his own rough draft. He scrolled to the top of the page to read what he had written, but his eyes kept flicking to the clock on the bottom of the screen. Twelve nineteen... Twelve twenty...

Jack saved the document and turned off the computer. They had been gone for a week; even Brock had his limits after long missions like that. There was no way he had enough patience to write a report for longer than two hours. Jack wouldn't be surprised if he found his office door closed and Brock himself trying to energize himself in the gym.

That man was a decade older had more energy than Jack did when he was eight.

Shaking his head to himself with the slightest hint of a smile hiding in a corner of his mouth, Jack shrugged on his leather jacket and left his office. Brock's was just to the left of his, and the door was—thankfully—open. Brock was sitting at the computer with his nose almost touching the screen, squinting as his eyes traveled left and right. An empty coffee cup and a crushed energy drink can sat by his right hand, but Jack could swear Brock was reading the same sentence repeatedly, trying to make sense of it, and if he replaced his keyboard with a pillow, the room would soon fill with snoring.

Jack rapped at the open door, and Brock looked up. His eyes were red.

"You finished?" Jack asked.

"What?" Brock looked back at the screen, then into his coffee cup, and raised his eyebrows as if surprised to find it empty. "Yeah. I'm almost there. Give me, uh, three minutes."

Jack nodded and left for the elevator. The thing took long to reach the Operations Level at this hour, as people from all the departments were on their way for lunch, and he found himself pushing the button multiple times as if that could somehow bring it faster. When it finally arrived, it was crowded, and he miraculously squeezed himself in between a group of guys from tech support. As the door slid closed, Jack noticed Brock's figure leaving his office, but he didn't push the open door button; he wouldn't have fit inside, anyway.

The elevator didn't make any stops on the way, and soon Jack was crossing the main hall to the exit, but stopped in his tracks at the sight of Brock waiting around at the enormous sculpture of SHIELD's eagle in the very middle of the hall. How the hell was he already there? Even if he ran down the stairs, there was no way he'd get to the ground floor faster than Jack... was there?

Still confused about it, Jack approached him to accuse him of being an alien able to teleport this whole time, but then he did a double take and his voice died in his throat. First of all, Brock was wearing olive green, a color he would never be caught dead in. Second of all, Jack would have remembered if he had ever seen a camo fucking jacket in his closet. Brock could be a fashion disaster when he wanted to be, but that was a whole new level. 

Brock looked up and finally realized Jack was standing there rendered speechless by his outfit. He raised his eyebrow defiantly, and Jack was about to ask what the hell was all of this, but then he heard his own thoughts expressed out loud from behind him. In Brock's voice.

"What in the _ goddamn fuck?"_

Jack turned on his heel. Standing behind him was Brock. The red-eyed, black-clad Brock. 

_ There were two Brocks. _

While Jack was standing there even more speechless than just a second ago and wondering if he hadn't died and gone to Heaven, the olive green Brock grinned wolfishly.

"That's how you greet your favorite big bro after…” He frowned. “What was the last time you saw me? Ten years ago?"

"Best ten years of my life," the black Brock snarled. 

Jack blinked in surprise. "You have an older brother?"

Brock threw him an unhappy glance. "Yeah, by about seven minutes." He went back to glaring at the olive green Brock—_not Brock, his _ twin_— _who offered Jack his hand for a handshake.

"Don't feel bad about him not having shared this fascinating fact, he's not really allowed to do that," he said, crushing Jack's hand in his. "Rumlow. I'd tell you my first name, too, but then I'd have to kill you."

Jack glanced at Brock, but he wasn't laughing or scoffing, confirming Rumlow's words. "Jack Rollins," he replied.

"I reckon you're close friends?"

"Roommates," Brock cut in before Jack even opened his mouth to respond. "Not that it's your business. What the hell're you even doing here?"

"Work," Rumlow replied tersely. “Not that it’s your business.”

"It is if you’re spying on me."

Rumlow barked a laugh. "Not everything's about you, kid." He reached out to ruffle Brock's hair, but he only brushed the tips of his faux hawk before Brock dodged him. 

"We're the same fucking age, idiot."

Jack watched that whole spectacle with awe. Brock bantering with his long lost twin brother—that hadn't happened even in his wildest dreams. But no matter how amazing and hilarious he thought that was, he could sense there was some bad blood between the two, and he promised himself he would find out what had happened, no matter the cost.

"SHIELD asked my division for help at something they're working on, and that's all you need to know," Rumlow said. "If you weren't briefed, then I already told you more than I'm supposed to."

Brock rolled his eyes, but didn't push; he knew far too well what 'classified' meant. "Fair. I wish you a fruitful cooperation. Just stay the fuck out of my hair and we'll be fine."

"Will be hard, considering I'm crashing at yours."

Brock stared at him wide-eyed for good five seconds. "In your fucking dreams," he managed finally.

"Fury's suggestion, not mine." Rumlow pulled a battered pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket despite the no smoking sign hanging just there on the nearest wall. "They don't have enough rooms on base to fit all of us. Said you'd love an opportunity to catch up."

"And you'll have more than enough time for that later, I'm sure. We're on a tight schedule," a new voice cut in; Jack turned around to see Hill approaching them. She looked Rumlow up and down and then glanced briefly at Brock as if comparing the two. "Big Daddy, I assume."

"That's my code name," Rumlow explained to Jack, winking. "Try not to laugh too hard."

"Smoking's forbidden inside the building," Hill said. "May I call you Mr. Rumlow?"

"Is it?" Rumlow put a cigarette between his teeth and lit it up. "Big Daddy's fine. I like the sound of that, especially when coming from a pretty girl's mouth."

Hill didn't say anything to that, but she threw Brock a scandalized look. He only shrugged in response as if to indicate he’s her problem, not his.

"Please, follow me. Director Fury is expecting you." She left hurriedly towards the elevator. Rumlow followed her rather leisurely, waggling his eyebrows at Brock and Jack as he was passing them.

Jack whistled softly. "Assholery runs in the family."

He expected a witty remark, but he got none. Brock rushed out of the Triskelion with a deep frown and crossed the parking lot in strides. Jack had to jog to catch up with him. They got in Brock's car and fell into a tense silence; Brock didn't even turn the radio on.

"So?" Jack prompted.

"What?" Brock barked. "You suddenly became talkative?!"

Jack could feel the nervous energy thrumming through him; he knew Brock wanted to step on it and just drive, faster than it was reasonable, but unfortunately they were stuck in traffic, moving about three inches forward every five minutes.

"I find out you have a twin brother after eight years of knowing you, you didn't expect me to get curious about it?"

Brock clenched the wheel so hard his knuckles went white, but then he relaxed his hands and sighed.

"As you already noticed, he's an asshole." He slumped against the backrest and finally switched on the radio, most likely to drown out all the honking and obscenities shouted around them. "Not much more to tell."

Jack looked at him doubtfully, but Brock wasn't even facing his way; he had put on his aviators and willfully pretended to be interested in the paint job of the car before them.

"So he's been an asshole to you," Jack took an educated guess.

Brock sighed again. "Fuck, he wasn't always like that." He started patting his pockets for something, but then gave up and asked, "You got smokes?"

Jack silently gave him one, and he put it between his teeth. Jack noticed the brothers did it the same way. Brock didn't light his up; he quit smoking years ago, but he still liked to chew on something when he was nervous.

"He used to be a good kid," Brock continued, half of the cigarette buried in his mouth. "Always taking care of me because he was the older one. Then we both joined the Army, and it changed him. I don't know what happened, he just changed." He remained silent for a longer while, flicking the cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other so many times Jack had to look away to avoid giving himself cross eyes. Brock’s car moved about nine inches in that time. "Let's just say he's the reason I still have nightmares about it. Not the deaths, not the fucked up war shit. Him. So I did one tour, and he stayed for good. It made him a total fucking psycho." Suddenly he turned, looking straight into Jack's eyes. "Don't fall for him."

Jack's mouth went dry. "Sorry, _ what? _"

Brock looked back at the road, moved another four inches. "He can be pretty charming when he wants to be. He picked up many women on his 'I'm not so bad, just hardened by war' shtick. All of those women ended up in a ditch." He swallowed thickly. "Fuck, Jackie, I'm not an idiot; he looks like me, doesn't take a genius to figure out you'd be into him. But he's dangerous."

"Like you," Jack noticed.

"Not like me. I have rules and morals. I'll beat you the fuck up if you piss me off, but I won't kill you—unless ordered otherwise. He doesn't follow any rules and has no morals. He does what he wants." Brock glanced at Jack when he didn't respond. "I mean it, Jackie. If he decides he wants to skin you alive, cut you into pieces and feed you to strays, that's what he'll do."

He wasn't kidding or exaggerating; Jack could always tell when Brock was messing with him, because he couldn't suppress his shit-eating grin for very long. Now, his brow was furrowed, and his jaw muscles jumped as he worried the cigarette. Jack wondered if he was speaking from experience; he wasn't sure if he wanted to know the details if that was the case.

"You don't have to worry," he drawled, looking out the side window; the lights finally turned green, but the line of cars didn't budge. "Sure, he looks like you, but he _ isn't _ you. I'm not in it just for the view, you know."

"You say that now," Brock said bitterly, "but you don't know him. I saw how he was looking at you; he will try to get into your head. He'll be acting harmless, an all round nice guy. He'll try to win you over." _ And pitch you against me _ hung unspoken in the air.

"How long have you known me?" Jack asked, no less bitter. Brock didn't answer, and Jack interpreted it as shame over his distrust.

"Just don't trust him is all I'm saying," he amended eventually.

Jack didn't respond, and Brock turned up the radio. They spent another half an hour listening to classic rock hits, and when they finally got out of traffic and sped towards their shared apartment, Brock spoke again.

"I can't believe I cut a toxic man out like you're supposed to, and then he's back in my life, and it's all Fury's fault." Apparently once he started talking about it, he didn't need further prompting to continue; he must have spent a lot of years festering in his anger with no one to rant at. "Think he has my address? Sure he does. Wonder when he drops by. Probably in the least desirable moment."

"Every moment will be the least desirable one," Jack noticed, and to cheer him up, he asked, "So what am I supposed to call him, _ Big Daddy?"_ He snorted, though the novelty of the name had worn off.

"I don't care what you call him as long as it's not my own fucking name."

"I wouldn't do that."

"Not voluntarily, but it might happen." Brock circled his face. "If we're both shirtless and with our hair undone, you might not notice the difference."

Jack resolutely didn't admit there was a moment when he had been convinced Big Daddy was Brock. It was before he knew about Brock having a twin, so it didn't count. He also didn't mention he hadn't noticed they had different hair; frankly, it was a miracle the unusual outfit had clued him up on something being off. He didn't have an eye for details.

"I'm afraid it's seriously safer for you if you don't know his first name," Brock continued. "Everything about him is classified; officially he doesn't even exist. I don't even know where he's stationing these days, and frankly, I don't care enough to make an educated guess."

He parked the car in front of their apartment building and hastily got out. As much as he needed to rant about unfairness of life, talking about his despised twin irritated him. He spat out his spit-soaked cigarette and waved for Jack to hurry up. 

Jack unfolded himself from the front seat and stretched until his spine cracked. His car had been at a shop when they were called in for the mission, and Brock's car was fucking tiny. One day, Jack would buy him a new, bigger one. When he could afford it.

As soon as they climbed the stairs to their apartment, Brock flung himself on the couch and closed his eyes for a nap, so Jack went to his room and lay down on the single bed. He was so exhausted he didn't register falling asleep; the next thing he knew, he was woken up by raised voices coming from outside his door. He sat up, yawned, stretched, wiped his eyes, stood up, adjusted his t-shirt that had rolled up in his sleep, and emerged from his room, curiously looking out for the source of the noise.

As it turned out, the Rumlow brothers were to blame; Big Daddy must have arrived a moment ago, because they were standing in the hallway, bickering. Big Daddy was smirking; Brock's lips were pursed and his arms crossed over his chest.

"Hello," Jack said awkwardly, unsure of how else to draw their attention. Brock's eyes were cold when he glanced at him, but Jack knew the hostility was only directed at his twin. Big Daddy, on the other hand, grinned at him.

"Hey there, Jack. Didn't expect me so soon, huh?"

Brock rolled his eyes. "I was about to make dinner," he said, his voice dripping with malevolence. "You ate?"

"Nope. What's cookin'?"

Brock thrust his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans and led the way to the kitchen. "Pork chops."

"Oh, that's too bad. I was hoping for a burger." Rumlow dropped on a chair with a sigh.

"You're welcome to eat out," Brock grumbled. He took some products out of the fridge and carried them to the counter the closest to the stove.

"Yeah... Maybe tomorrow." Rumlow scratched his overgrown stubble. "I only got here this morning, and they made me work all day. I'm tired as fuck."

Brock hummed in acknowledgment. Rumlow watched him cook for a moment, then his eyes flicked to Jack who had just sat across from him.

"He always cooking for you?" he asked with a knowing smirk.

Jack shrugged. "He's a good cook, I'm not."

He was used to deflecting people's suggestive comments and accusations. Brock ranked higher than him; if their relationship ever got out, it'd be frowned upon in SHIELD. Director Fury could even transfer Jack to a different city because of it. 

"Is he?" Big Daddy's eyes glinted in amusement as they flicked back to Brock. "Can't wait to see for myself."

"Can't you?" Brock countered, throwing potatoes into a pot a little too violently. "I thought you were disappointed there were no burgers."

Big Daddy raised his eyebrow at Jack in a _ what the hell's his problem? _way. Jack didn't react to it; instead, he glanced over his shoulder at Brock. He was standing straight and tight as a string, clenching his jaw and not tearing his eyes away from the pots and pans on the stove. Jack felt a wave of sympathy washing over him. He wished he could come close behind him, wrap his arms around his waist, and rest his chin on his shoulder; to mutter something comforting into his ear, things like, _ don't worry, it's only temporary _ and _ nothing bad will happen. _As it was, the best thing he could do for him was to pretend they were close friends at most and definitely not a couple.

"Why're you so pissy, short stuff?" Big Daddy reclined in his chair and dug his smokes out of his pocket. Jack tensed seeing that, but he knew from earlier that telling him not to smoke inside would be pointless.

"We're the same height," Brock said, sounding like they had had that conversation many times before.

"I'm an inch taller." Big Daddy put a cigarette between his teeth and lit it up. Hearing the lighter, Brock snapped his head that way, and his eyes narrowed.

"At least open a fucking window if you're gonna smoke here."

"I'm your _ guest. _" Big Daddy moved his chair backwards so he could put his legs up on the table. He hadn't taken his boots off, and Jack got a good eyeful of his muddy soles. "You're not a very good host if you're ordering your guests around."

“You're an unwanted guest.” Brock's neck was red and his eyes shooting daggers, but his voice remained calm.

"Aw, come on, don't be like this. Didn't you miss me at least a little?"

"I don't think it's possible to miss someone less." Brock turned his focus back to the stove. He started turning the chops. "If I find mud on the table, it's ending up in your plate."

Big Daddy stared at him, gradually becoming more and more unhappy. Jack realized he'd been trying to get a rise out of Brock, but Brock must have known that from the start. Finally, he dropped his feet on the floor and turned his attention back to Jack.

"So?" He flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the floor, grinning. "Not gonna ask me about any embarrassing stories from Brock's youth? Because trust me, I have _ tons_." 

Jack was _ kind of _ curious, but—

"I'm not the kind of person who finds amusement in humiliation of others."

It was a lie. Jack found plenty entertainment in humiliating others, but never Brock. And even _ if _ he liked to humiliate Brock sometimes, it was all in good fun. This wouldn't be.

Big Daddy watched him for a moment with a penetrating gaze, his eyes sliding leisurely from his face down the line of his neck to his arms and chest. No one had ever made Jack's body tense in wariness and tingle in anticipation at the same time.

_ It's because he looks like Brock_, Jack told himself, trying to shake off the unwanted feeling.

"You're an enigma, Rollins." Big Daddy took a long drag, then tipped his head up to blow out the smoke. "Can't wait to crack you."

Brock loudly dropping an empty pot into the sink made Jack jolt. Rumlow looked that way with a smirk. There was that rise he was looking for.

But Brock was calm and quiet when he set the dinner plates full of pork chops, roasted potatoes and veggies before them. He went over to the wet bar, and seeing this, Jack got up to get wine glasses. A moment later, they were all eating in silence, Brock all tense, Rumlow pleased, and Jack mostly confused.

They were finishing when Brock asked, "How long will you be staying?"

"As long as I'm needed." Big Daddy set his utensils on his empty plate and sipped on his wine. He watched Brock for a longer moment when suddenly his eyes crinkled in amusement. "You're _ still _ doing this?"

Jack looked at Brock; his meal was only half-finished, and he was biting and sucking on the end of his fork. At Big Daddy's remark, he pulled it out of his mouth, his ears turning red.

"He'd suck on everything when he was a kid," Big Daddy addressed Jack. "He was still using a pacifier when he was seven. When our foster parents threw it away, he dug it out of the trash and hid it under his bed—"

"Could you not—" Brock cut in, the blush now spreading to his cheeks, but his twin talked right over him.

"When he was thirteen, I caught him sleeping with his thumb in his mouth. He has malocclusion because of this, maybe you’ve noticed." Big Daddy lit up another cigarette and reclined in his chair. He was watching Brock with a delighted expression on his face. "I thought you'd grow out of this by now, dear brother." His eyes flicked to Jack. "Is he still sucking on his thumb like a baby?"

"I haven't noticed," Jack replied once he found his voice again.

Sure, he witnessed Brock chewing on something many times; usually it were pens and pencils or Jack's cigarettes, and it happened only in stressful situations. He had figured it was a side effect of quitting smoking, but now he realized it was the most probable reason why Brock had picked up smoking at all. He wouldn’t to indulge Rumlow and say anything about it though. 

"Not very perceptive, are you?" Big Daddy commented.

"You can't stay here," Brock blurted out suddenly, surprising both Jack and his twin. "I mean, where are you even gonna sleep? The bathtub?"

Big Daddy didn't seem worried. He took a drag, kept it in his lungs for long four seconds, then blew out a plume of smoke right above Brock’s head. Jack could sense Brock's body tremble from poorly hidden anger. 

"What, something wrong with your couch there?" Big Daddy asked finally.

"There's no way I'm letting you make a total mess out of my living room," Brock growled.

Big Daddy watched him, unimpressed. Brock set his shoulders, and Jack could tell that they were about to go from a verbal fight to a physical one.

"He can take my room," he said.

Brock snapped his head sideways to give Jack a betrayed look.

"It's fine," Jack said stoically, hoping he could somehow transfer his calm into Brock. It felt weird; Brock was usually the composed one. "Your brother's mess will be out of your sight, and we can share your room. We do that often enough on the field, anyway."

In fact, what Jack had just called 'Brock's room' was their master bedroom. The small room they both referred to as Jack's was really just a storage for his stuff that also happened to have a bed.

Brock glanced at Big Daddy, and Jack followed his line of sight. Big Daddy was looking from him to Brock with a lopsided smile that Jack didn't like and definitely didn't want to analyze.

Realizing that it would be easier to give in, Brock collected himself. "Fine." He dropped his gaze to his plate and went back to cutting his half-eaten chop.

Jack stood up, gathering his and Big Daddy's plate. "Come on, I'll show you to it." 

He placed the plates in the sink and led the way through the hall where Big Daddy had left his duffel bag. He picked it up and followed Jack to the room. Curiously, he seemed to lose interest in Jack as soon as they were out of Brock's sight. He dropped his bag on the floor by the door and looked around the room.

"Do I need to ask you not to touch my stuff?" Jack asked, drawing Big Daddy's attention back to himself.

"I see Brock has already turned you against me?" Big Daddy didn't even spare him a glance. He sat down on the bed and swiftly untied his boots, then took them off. He dropped each one, causing dried mud to spray around on the blue carpet.

"He didn't have to," Jack replied, eyeing it. A piece landed on his foot and he shook it off.

"You're not very polite, are you?"

"I'm your brother's best friend; what do you think?"

This time Big Daddy looked up and grinned at him. "I can see why he likes you." He took another theatrical look around. "Nothing here for me to mess with."

Unsure how to respond to that, Jack simply nodded and left Big Daddy to his own devices. When he returned to the kitchen, Brock was still forcing himself to finish his cold dinner.

"Leave it." Jack rested his hand on Brock's wrist, glad they were away from Big Daddy's curious gaze. 

"You know I don't like wasting food." But he rested his utensils against the plate. 

"You don't like eating this right now, either." Jack took the plate away from him. "I'll finish it tomorrow." 

He covered the plate with tinfoil and put it away in the fridge. When he turned back to Brock, he was refilling his glass. Jack patiently waited for him to finish drinking, noting how miserable he looked. When Brock put the empty glass down and reached for the bottle again, Jack stepped in.

"Let's just go to bed," he said, taking a hold of Brock's arm. Brock nodded and let Jack lead him to their bedroom.

"He knows," he murmured once they were safely closed inside. "About us. I could see it in his fucking face."

"Even if," Jack said calmly, shedding his clothes, "what's he gonna do about it?"

"Oh, nothing much, just completely ruin our lives." Brock dropped on the bed heavily with his face in his hands.

Jack sighed and sat down beside him. "I've no doubt your brother can be really nasty, I got more than enough proof of that tonight. But whatever he does, we'll face it together. Okay?"

Brock dragged his hands down his face and turned to look at Jack. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "He's targeting me, but I just know whatever he's planning will blow back on you."

"Don't. It's not your fault." Jack cupped the back of Brock's neck and pressed a kiss to his temple.

"But it's not fair."

"Life never is."

Brock sighed. "No, I guess not." 

He shook Jack's hand off and started undressing. Seeing that he's ready to lie down, Jack scrambled to his side of the bed and slipped under the covers. Brock soon followed suit.

They lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling for a while until Brock turned onto his side and wrapped his arm around Jack's waist, bringing him closer. Jack smiled, lined his arm with Brock's back, bringing his head to rest against his shoulder, and that was how they fell asleep. But they grew apart in their sleep, and when Jack woke up the next morning, Brock's back was turned to him. He smiled sleepily and pressed himself against him, his arms wrapping around his waist. He felt him move and pressed a smile to his neck.

"Good morning," he purred, his voice still rough from sleep.

"Is it?" Brock teased.

"It always is when you're next to me."

Brock laughed. "I can't believe what a sap you are."

"You should be used to me being a sap by now..."

Jack trailed a line of kisses down his neck while his hand slipped into his boxers, but Brock's cock was soft when he palmed it.

"Is this okay?" Jack murmured.

"Sure, why not," Brock replied a little belatedly, and despite his sleepiness and lust, Jack picked up on it.

"You sure?"

"Have I ever turned down a handjob before?"

The answer to that question was negative, so Jack picked up what he was doing. He waited for Brock's cock to grow before he took it firmly in his hand and started giving it long strokes at a leisurely pace. Brock arched his head back, resting it on Jack's shoulder and exposing his throat which Jack gladly began nipping on.

He had missed him; on the mission they hadn't got a chance to _ be _ together, and now he was drinking all his little gasps like a thirsty man, and his own pleasure was growing in his lower abdomen. He pressed himself against Brock's ass, rocking slightly, and he felt his pulse quicken right there against his palm, and he knew he was pushing Brock closer and closer to the edge, when—

The door flew open and in walked Brock—_no_, Big Daddy. Jack scrambled away as fast as he could, but surely he saw everything there was to see, judging by how red in the face he got.

"What. The. Fuck," he snarled. His voice was trembling as his body was.

As Jack was hysterically trying to come up with a way to salvage this, Brock stretched his back, and folding his arms behind his head, said, "Oh, I was just testing a theory of mine. Hope you don't mind?"

Jack's blood ran cold as he looked from the Rumlow in his bed to the Rumlow in the doorway and realized who was really who.

"Yes! We fuck!" Brock snarled. "Congratulations, you cracked it! Now get the fuck out of my bed and stay away from him!"

Big Daddy wasn't impressed by Brock's outburst. He got up lazily, doing absolutely nothing to hide the tent in his boxers, and Jack didn't miss the way how Brock's eyes snapped away from the sight. Big Daddy strolled out of the room without another glance at Jack and shoulder-checking Brock as he passed him. Brock's gaze shifted to Jack, but before he could come up with something smart to say, Brock turned on his heel and stormed off, leaving him sitting frozen on the bed.

He brought his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them, cursing under his breath. He was sure giving Brock's twin a handjob counted as cheating... Fuck. Brock must have been so pissed at him. What if he wouldn't forgive him? Jack didn't mean to do it, but he did do it... They had tackled many obstacles in their relationship before, but what if this time there was nothing Jack could do to fix it? Betrayal was huge after all.

He sat there for a long time, trying to gather his courage to do something, to explain... At the same time dreading to face Brock, to hear him say it was over... He couldn't lose him, he couldn't even imagine what would happen to him if he did.

Finally, he brought himself to get up and throw some clothes on, then to follow the noise to the kitchen. Only Brock was there—this time he was sure it was him—preparing coffee. Jack stopped in his tracks, his eyes glued to his back, again not knowing what to say. He watched him for a while until Brock looked up. 

"Coffee?" he asked, trying for a pleasant tone, but the muscles in his jaw were pulled tight.

"I'm sorry," Jack choked out.

"You shouldn't be the one apologizing." Brock turned off the coffee machine and faced Jack. "I'm not mad at you; he used you, Jack."

"But I should've realized, shouldn't I? I should've noticed he wasn't you."

Brock sighed. "He has the same face, and you were sleepy, and I should've known he'd pull something like this, and I could go on. Let's just get past this. Okay?" 

He grabbed a full cup and extended his hand towards Jack. Jack took it with a sigh of relief. They were not breaking up after all, not yet at least.

"He's gone by the way," Brock said, taking his own cup and sitting at the table. "Got a text from SHIELD. We should have him out of our hair for the day."

"Good," Jack muttered, sitting across from Brock. Brock smiled at that.

"We could do something nice tonight," he said. "You know, after work. Forget this fucked up morning."

Jack worked up a smile of his own. "Gladly."

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Hirata's art, especially the one [here.](https://hiratapicture.tumblr.com/post/169771384373/reupload)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Yesterday's Footprints, Today's Sticky Note](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23275273) by [Be_Inspired](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Be_Inspired/pseuds/Be_Inspired)


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